I WANT AN "I SURVIVED AMERICAN IDOL" T-SHIRT

Whoever watched last night's results definitely deserves a t-shirt saying “I made it through American Idol.”
First, there was that Sinatra medley by our five finalists, all dressed like pallbearers. Then Lee was sent to the Lifeboat Stool while we had to sit through Lady Gaga's taped performance. After she tinkered on her bramble-covered piano in front of the flaming angel statue, we got to watch Gaga do the Zumba with hairless dancing satyrs in their black girdles. During this act, I wondered 1) how long it took the hair and makeup people to get that fishnet stocking over her entire body and 2) how prime time TV was going to react to the sight of Gaga's thonged backside. The answer to 2) is that the Idol children were protected from the glare of that aerobicized tush by fog and camera trickery. Still, we got to see the satyrs pawing at Gaga and one of them apparently having a stroke when he couldn't get through her fishnet, his arm trembling like a cobra above the orgy.
Simon, what was it you said about Siobhan's leaf costume being a distraction?
Harry Connick Jr., the so-called crooner and actor, performed a martini-and-Prozac version of “And I love her.” Then he told a story about screwing up a song in front of Frank Sinatra that was long enough for me to go have my shower and get my own martini and Prozac.
Just when I thought it was safe to go back to the couch, we had yet another medley, this time with Lee rejoining his co-competitors for a mash-up of Connick songs.
A medley on American Idol, it turns out, is the equivalent of those montages in movies where there isn't enough plot or script, and they want you to know that time has gone by because the couple in love is in bed, eating (and usually feeding each other), walking on the beach, and maybe having a pillow fight or pushing each other on swings to show that love is fun. The Idols were trying to act like singing is fun, but they looked as bored as we were.
Just when I was beginning to wonder whether Idol is really a government conspiracy, an opiate for the people meant to distract us from war and hurricanes and volcanoes and that Black Mask of Doom disguised as oil gushing off the coast of Louisiana, we finally got to the results. Ryan sent Lee back to his Lifeboat stool, then dimmed the lights as he put Casey with Crystal and Big Mike with Aaron the Tyke.
What? Casey was safe? Casey, the Cougar Bait?
Now, admit it: Despite the fact that Kara has trouble seeing through that bruised eye makeup, and occasionally has so much neck jewelry that her head floats like a balloon on top of her skinny shoulders, she called it on Tuesday when she compared Casey to a bleating lamb during his Sinatra performance. I hadn't quite pinpointed what that near-vibrato (otherwise known as a “vocal wobble”) sounded like, but yep, it sounded just like a little lost lamb looking for his cougar.
But, this week, anyway, Casey was no lamb led to slaughter, despite the disconcertingly large blonde bun he sported with his purple shirt and vest on Tuesday night. Nope, he'll be grazing in the green grass with the others for another week, anyway, and it's Aaron – so good to his adoptive mom, so clearly never going to have trouble with a prom date, so easily turned into a barbell by Big Mike – who we won't see coming back. But all is not lost: He's going home with a better haircut and he's still only 17.
In fact, not only is Aaron still 17, he still “feels 17,” as Aaron told Ryan last night, when the host tried to save the night but failed. Unlike the rest of us, who have probably aged decades as we watch the Idols flicker and go out, while we refuse to worry about the next disaster headed our way.

Lessons from American Idol

Goodbye, sweet Tim Urban, you smiling greyhound of a Beatles-coiffed contestant. I'm sad to see you go.
Who knew that I would ever love American Idol? I'm a reader, not a TV watcher. But, last year, when I started watching Idol with my youngest child, I was immediately hooked. I love the made-for-TV stories about these people who claw themselves up out of poverty, foster homes, gangs, etc. to sing for their suppers. I'm even more intrigued by the cultural phenom of this public flogging that passes for judging. I mean, wow. These people keep getting knocked down only to jump back up again.
Yes, Teflon Tim, I mean you. You'd make a better actor than singer. (I can see you joining Glee this season as Rachel's boyfriend! You're way hotter than that big dumb cluck, Finn!) You don't have Mama Sox's pipes, Casey's rocker style, Aaron's skinny Sinatra charm, Lee's bar room gravel and bedroom eyes, Big Mike's showmanship, or Siobhan's range and butterfly costumes. But you do have something that I'll sorely miss: Staying power.
When the judges skewered your performances, you smiled and took it on the chin. You didn't break down. You didn't argue your case. You didn't whine. You didn't even come out and bitch slap Simon. You just came back for more. And we can all learn from that – especially if we're writers and artists.
I think all writers should watch Idol. We can relate to rejection. I once had an editor of a top magazine turn down one of my stories, saying that I was “too old to be called promising.” That was when I was 29! I have had editors write curt rejection notes for pieces I've slaved over for months, saying only, “This does not amuse,” or “We have too many stories on that topic.” Recently, a a book editor told me that my novel was a great read – she couldn't put it down! – but “it's not right for the current publishing climate.”
Watching Idol makes me realize how glad I am that we writers get rejected in the privacy of our own bedrooms, where we can weep and throw ourselves prostrate under our laptops without anyone watching. I can too easily believe that the preening Simon might say to me, “You don't know who you are as an artist!” Or Randy shaking his big bullet of a head and sighing, “I just didn't get it, dawg.” And what if I had to get up to read my last failed article or story just to prove, once more, why I got the fewest votes? Ouch!
The most important lesson of Idol is that the marketplace is fickle. I wasn't surprised when Lily got sent home this season. Sure, she has a great voice, but she has white hair, and who likes the ukelele? I wasn't shocked when Andrew and Paige got the boot ahead of Tim, either. They had better voices, but he has the looks and charm.
The Idol judges keep trying to pretend that “this is a singing competition,” but we all know differently. This TV show is really all about nailing what kind of pop star will turn on young, female viewers enough to get them to blow up their phones and buy iTunes with their parents' credit cards. Witness last year's debacle: Adam Lambert clearly has a better voice than Vanilla Allen, but Allen was way cute and mild, while Lambert was way gay and probably scared their hairbands off.
Last night, I comforted myself that Tim – like any Idol contestant who makes it into the top 10, or maybe even into the top 1,000 – probably has enough talent to carry on with his dream. I told myself that again today, when I got yet another rejection email.
And at least I don't have to read my piece aloud on TV, while Simon and Kara fake flirt as I pretend I don't care what they think.